


Scars

by BubbleGumLizard



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Angst, First Kiss, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-11 00:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5605987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BubbleGumLizard/pseuds/BubbleGumLizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John has returned to Baker Street, he realizes that not everything is as it was before and he resolves to figure out why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a little fic I wrote today. I meant to write much more for tonight, but I've been sick and haven't really accomplished anything this week. Enjoy!

Two months. That’s how long it took John after moving back into 221B Baker Street to notice. It should have been obvious, a glaring difference in life in the flat, but John was too caught up in his own pain, his own internal angst and struggles with depression to see what was plainly in front of his face. Once he noticed, he regretted his distraction, embarrassed by the oversight and wondering if Sherlock had noticed his lack of observational skills. Sherlock seeming rather distracted himself, John was sure that he hadn’t noticed anything, which was strange in itself. When John finally did realize his oversight, he couldn’t stop himself from watching every little thing that Sherlock did, looking for other changes. There wasn’t anything else, however, just the one minor difference, which was very disconcerting. John wondered what it meant, wondered why only that one thing had changed, that one small thing that was so worrying to John..

Sherlock Holmes no longer wandered around the flat in his many various states of undress: he now was dressed at least in a shirt and trousers at all times.

While before he would lounge in pajama bottoms or a bed sheet, occasionally strolling through the flat completely nude as if to discompose John, since John had returned, John hadn’t seen more of Sherlock’s body than anyone on the street might. Once John realized this, he found himself shocked at how much it disturbed him not to see his flatmate’s bare chest or back. He told himself that it was disturbing only because he wondered what could cause Sherlock’s sudden modesty, not for any untoward reason, no matter what that annoying little voice in the back of his mind said.

He resolved to discover the reason for this change. He thought briefly that he might mention it to Sherlock, going a direct route, but he was sure that he wouldn’t be given a straight answer.

It was either a question of simple modesty, embarrassment about the scar from the bullet that had nearly killed him — John’s hands clenched in fists, angry at that thought — or it was something to do with his back. It had to be the back and not the front, John reasoned, because John had seen Sherlock’s bare chest when he had been shot and there was nothing unusual about it. Sherlock hadn’t shown any signs of being concerned about John’s modesty, bursting in on John in all states of dress, even when John had locked the door. That made modesty seem rather unlikely, so John decided against that being the reason. Embarrassment about his bullet scar was similarly unlikely: John had seen the wound while Sherlock was recuperating and Sherlock had seen John’s own bullet scar many times, which was much worse and more traumatic than Sherlock’s. No, John told himself, that couldn’t be the problem.

That left something to do with Sherlock’s back. What could there be about Sherlock’s back that he didn’t want John to see? It was an odd place to suddenly start hiding from view. John wondered idly if something had happened while Sherlock had been dismantling Moriarty’s network, if he had received some injury to his back that might embarrass him.

John decided firmly on a course of privacy invasion similar to how Sherlock had acted their entire friendship. Sherlock wouldn’t be the only person to rush through doorways while someone was taking a shower or relaxing in a bath. John didn’t know what Sherlock slept in, considering he didn’t ever see his flatmate sleep, but he was sure he could time it correctly to catch Sherlock with his shirt off while changing his clothes. With luck, Sherlock slept in the nude and John’s task would be an easy one. He pushed back thoughts of a nude Sherlock, locking them deep in a part of his mind that he largely ignored, hoping they would go away if left alone.

Over the next three weeks, John tried everything to see Sherlock with his shirt off, acting as innocently as possible every time he walked in on Sherlock. The first time he did it, Sherlock was just getting out of the shower and John thought he was going to have a heart attack.

John had heard the shower turn off and took that moment to open the door, casually walking in and heading for the medicine cabinet. He stopped abruptly, blinking at Sherlock in surprise, as if he hadn’t realized the shower was occupied.

“Oh! Sorry,” John said, holding his hands out holding his hands out in supplication. “I didn’t know you were in here.” He kept his eyes trained on Sherlock’s face, taking in every detail about him that he could from his peripheral vision.

Sherlock was breathing heavily, a bath towel wrapped around his waist as he stared wild-eyed at John. “What do you want?”

“Oh, I thought I might shave,” John said, jerking his thumb at the medicine cabinet while his other hand went to the stubble on his chin.

“I will be finished in a moment.” Sherlock stood frozen in place, clearly waiting for John to leave.

John nodded and backed slowly out of the room, willing Sherlock to turn away, knowing that he wouldn’t.

It turned into a game after that, Sherlock quickly catching on the John was up to something. John played dumb every time, though, acting as innocent as possible while Sherlock watched him suspiciously, questioning his cover stories and obviously not believing his answers.

Eventually, it became too much for John. Over dinner one night, he “accidentally” spilled wine on Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock stood quickly to go to his bedroom to change, but John was up in a flash, reaching out to unbutton the shirt, muttering about getting at the stain before it set.

Sherlock pushed John’s hands away from the buttons. “Leave it, John,” he said quietly.

“Why?” John asked, narrowing his eyes. “You never worried about being shirtless in front of me before.”

“Well, that was before.” Sherlock’s eyes were very blue at the moment, glinting like steel in the bright lights of the kitchen. “This is now. Kindly let me pass.”

John had backed Sherlock into a corner as he tried to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt. He sighed, beginning to turn to go, but something in him snapped. He turned back, his fists clenching at his sides, feeling angrier than he had ever been with Sherlock. “What is it? Why won’t you let me see you topless?”

“Why do you want to?” Sherlock shot back, taking advantage of John’s momentary embarrassment to try and dart past him.

John reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s arm tightly, stopping him. Sherlock was fast and strong, but John was faster and much stronger. Realizing how close they were to each other, closer than that had been in the months since John had returned, John lowered his voice, allowing his anger and hurt to show on his face for Sherlock to read.

“Why don’t you trust me?” he asked quietly. “You should trust me. What can be so bad?”

“Please let go of me, John,” Sherlock said, looking down at John’s firm grip on Sherlock’s arm. “Please.”

There was a strange note in Sherlock’s voice that John didn’t recognize. If it had been anyone else, John would have sworn it was fear. Surprised by a matching note in Sherlock’s eyes, John released him. “Are you okay?” John asked, studying Sherlock’s face.

“Of course,” Sherlock snapped, straightening his shirt and beginning to button it up again.

“Sherlock…” John started, but trailed off at the look Sherlock shot him, full of fear and pleading to leave it alone. He considered doing just that, but decided that he needed to press the issue. He needed to know what was wrong. “Just tell me what it is. You know you can trust me.”

“Can I?”

“Of course you can.” John was surprised. It hadn’t occurred to him that Sherlock might not trust him.

“You are trying to forcibly remove my shirt,” Sherlock pointed out, a hint of his usual humor glinting through the tenseness of his voice.

John smiled. “Well, you won’t do it for me.”

Sherlock studied John’s face for a moment. John let down all of the facial defenses he had built up over the years, letting all of his emotions show on his face, his concern, curiosity, and, most importantly, he thought, love for Sherlock. At last, Sherlock nodded and quickly unbuttoned his shirt, his eyes locked with John’s until he let his armor fall silently to the floor.

John watched as Sherlock turned slowly on the spot, showing John his back. John felt horror bubbling up from his stomach as he stared at the scars neatly criss-crossing Sherlock’s back, punctuated here and there by other scars, some older and some newer.

“What happened?” John asked, reaching out to touch the scars, but hesitating an inch away, close enough to feel body heat radiating out towards John’s fingertips.

The question was pointless and John knew it. He could see what had happened, almost as if he had been there: Sherlock had been whipped mercilessly, to within an inch of his life. Sherlock let out a short, humorless laugh in response, crossing his arms across his chest.

“Do you sufficiently pity me now?” Sherlock asked after several minutes of silence. “Now that you know, your bleeding heart can fill with pity for your poor, wounded friend.”

John had let his hands curl into fists as he studied Sherlock’s back. At this speech from Sherlock, he couldn’t take it anymore. He spun around and let loose with a punch aimed at the wall, denting it.

“What was that?” Sherlock asked, turning to look at John.

John turned back to him, his mouth set in anger. “Who did this?” he asked through gritted teeth. “Who hurt you like this?”

Sherlock seemed surprised. His eyes moved quickly, taking in everything about John, and then he nodded. “The man is dead, John. Mycroft saw to that.”

“Good,” John said, his anger starting to ebb slightly. He took a step closer to Sherlock so they were nearly at kissing distance. _Easy John,_ he told himself, _focus on one thing at a time._ “If anyone ever hurts you again, I will kill them.”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes wide as they darted around John’s face.

_Stay still, John_ , he told himself, feeling his arms start to raise to grab Sherlock. _Don’t do anything rash._

“Oh, bloody hell,” John mumbled and reached out for Sherlock, pulling his head down and into a firm kiss. To his surprise, Sherlock responded to the kiss, wrapping his arms around John and pulling their bodies tightly together.

“Why didn’t you tel me?” John asked in a whisper, several minutes later. He was standing with his arms around Sherlock’s middle, his head resting lightly on the taller man’s shoulder.

“I can’t bear to be pitied,” Sherlock said simply, and placed a light kiss on John’s head. “Especially by you.”

“I wouldn’t pity you, Sherlock. I might be angry about things that happened to you and I might wish with all my might that it was me and not you, but I won’t pity you.”

“Everyone else who knows does. Even Mycroft, though he doesn’t show it. I can see it when he looks at me.”

John tilted his head up and gave Sherlock a slow, lingering kiss. He wasn’t sure what this meant for their relationship, but he knew that his kisses were not only being received favorably, they were being returned with equal passion. “Well Mycroft is an idiot,” John said finally, sighing happily as he settled his head on Sherlock’s shoulder again.

“It pains you that I’ve been hurt.” It was more a statement of fact than a question, spoking in a quiet, sad voice.

“Of course it does, Sherlock. I love you. Always have. No one wants to see those they love hurt.” John was a bit worried at his declaration of love, but Sherlock made no mention of it or response to it. John supposed that was just as well. Sherlock clearly didn’t feel the same way towards John, so it was for the best that he didn’t respond.

“I should put my shirt back on,” Sherlock said quietly. He moved to pull away, but John locked his arms around Sherlock’s middle, restraining him lightly. He would have let go if Sherlock had really tried to escape, but he didn’t, relaxing into John’s embrace.

“Do you really not trust me?”

“Of course I trust you. It was a defense mechanism.”

“You didn’t tell me about this.” John released Sherlock and spun him so he could study the scars.

“I haven’t told anyone about it. Other than Mycroft and his staff, no one knows.” Sherlock put a hand to his face and John could tell that he was embarrassed.

John reached out and traced one of the scars, one that curved down from Sherlock’s back, too close to his kidney for John’s comfort, snaking around to Sherlock’s hip, disappearing under his trousers. John’s hand rested lightly on Sherlock’s hip, considering the scar and wondering precisely what sort of blade made it.

“If you want to know details, I am in a position to supply them,” Sherlock said at length.

John shook his head wordlessly, sliding his hand around to Sherlock’s stomach, pressing himself up against Sherlock’s back. He lay light, fluttering kisses along Sherlock’s shoulders, resting his other hand on Sherlock’s stomach as well, so his arms were once again encircling him.

After he covered every inch of Sherlock’s back that he could easily reach with kisses, John closed his eyes and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder, breathing deeply as he held his silent friend.

Eons later, Sherlock settled his hands on top of John’s leaning back into John’s arms. “I love you too, John.”


End file.
